See Spot Run
by Madison Square
Summary: No one has ever come after me before. Features Itey, Spot, and Race. Rated for language, substance abuse, and SLASH. New Chapter!
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer:  No, I don't own Newsies…Yet.  Mwah ha ha ha ha.  
  
  
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See Spot Run  
  
  
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Madison Square   
  
  
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Prologue   
  
  
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_"I gotta—gotta—gotta get away!"—Jimi Hendrix_  
  
  
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            One day, I will be famous because I am producing a movie called "See Spot Run."

            The first thing you will see is the soles of running shoes flapping onto a red track.  Captions will dash across the track; credits will float in the sodas that the cheering crowd is holding.  The spectators wave around cups and hotdogs and those huge foam fingers.  The volume of the crowd increases, and you will see a young man with medium length dirty-blonde hair and piercing blue eyes and a slight build closing the distance between him and the white tape that marks the finish line.  There is no one in front of him.  His breathing is even and sweat is glistening on his cheeks and forehead but his face is not red like most faces would be.

            Just before he crosses the finish line in victory, the movie cuts to a pair of ragged sneakers whose soles flap like dog ears sitting on concrete steps.  Then cut to the inside of a large two story red brick house.  In the cherry wood cabinet and stainless steel kitchen, the same boy lingers in front of the stove, occasionally stirring the boiling pot of spaghetti.  He is making dinner after his victory, because his father is asleep in a leather armchair in the giant family room.  

            Let it be known that there is a difference between the actor and the figure on which the character is based that only a few people will recognize.  When the actor smiles, it is because he was told to, but when the real Spot grins, his mouth is slightly lopsided, with one corner of his lip slightly higher than the other.  And when he grins, his eyes turn from gray blue to new blue; the kind of blue one usually sees on the first day of school on freshly bought jeans.  He's not the real thing, but the actor will have to do.

            Sometime during the beginning of the movie, the actor-Spot will fight with his father.

            "You're supposed to work with me, right?"  The father will say.  He is a charming-looking man.  Large hands, a broad, open face, hair starting to gray at the temples.  He would be handsome if not for the constant frown adorning his face.

            "That's what you said in the beginning after Mom died," and enraged actor-Spot screams.  His eyes are narrowed and there is sweat glistening on his cheeks, but his face is not flushed.  It is envious how he never seems to turn red like normal people do.  "But now all you do all day is sit around on your ass moping!"

            "I will _not_ have that kind of language in my house!"  Father's voice is deep and rumbling, like thunder, but it sounds distant, like a storm miles and miles away.

            "Whatever.  I do all the work around here!  I cook, I clean, I get the groceries, I feed the fucking dog.  You don't do shit!"

            "I do!  I do; I work in the mornings and bring home the money for you to _do_ those things."  The father is pleading now; his eyes are begging Spot to understand.  He feels tired, so tired.  There is nothing for him anywhere.

            But Spot is through with understanding.

            "That's not the point!"  He stomps his feet in frustration.

            "Then what _is_ the point?  We agreed to work together to get through this, right?  We're a team, right?  That's how it's supposed to be."

            "No!"  Spot can't deal with it anymore.  The stress, physical and emotional, has finally taken its toll.  "No, no, no, no!"  He is throwing a tantrum like a little child, he knows, but he doesn't care.  "You're supposed to be the _father_, and _I'm_ supposed to be the _son_."  He storms out the door.

            His father sits down in the black leather armchair.  This has happened many times before.  He'll come back, he thinks, after a day or so.  He always does.  He'll come back.

            Only this time Spot doesn't.

            That's how my movie will start but that's not how it really happened.  I'm not really sure what really happened, or how, or why.

            All I know is that one day Spot dashed out the door in his dog-eared sneakers and shorts and a t-shirt and just kept on running.  
  
  
  
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End Prologue  
  
  
  
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A/N:  Should I keep going?  
  
Read and Review Please!!!!


	2. Chapter One

Disclaimer:  No, I don't own Newsies…Yet.  Mwah ha ha ha ha.  
  
  
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See Spot Run  
  
  
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Madison Square   
  
  
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Chapter One  
  
  
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_"I am the million dollar man.    
Somebody catch me if you can.    
I'm not afraid to be alone.    
All I need is water and a phone."  
—Imperial Teen_  
  
  
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            My full name is Angelo Diego Lopez.  My mother calls me "Little Angel," a rather embarrassing term of endearment I am sure she keeps using to cause my face to do an incredible imitation of a ripe tomato.  Only she says it like it's spelled with two 'e's.  LEETLE.  She even calls me that in public.  Normal people call me 'Itey.'  As in 'It-ee.'  When I was smaller I was just that—small.  Tiny, even.  Friends called my "Itty-Bitty" and acquaintances called me "Itty."  The latter stuck.  In sixth grade I decided my nickname was too normal, and I wanted to create some confusion, so I changed the spelling to I-T-E-Y.  Some people who don't know me call me "Eye-tee."  
            I knew Spot before I met him.  Heck, everyone knew Spot.  A week after he ran away he was all over the newspapers.  Of course, at that time no one knew to call him Spot.  The journalists called him "Troubled Teen Running His Way Into The Hearts of America."  That name grew troublesome, so when anyone at school talked about this "Troubled Teen," they dubbed him "The Marathon Man."  Stupid, yes, but that name spread like a wildfire on a dry day.  Soon even the journalists called him Marathon Man.  
            According to the newspapers, a family never knew when he would appear on their front doorstep.  The first house he visited was in a small town of New Jersey.  The Tanners, a nice middle class family of a mother, father, son and daughter, heard a knock at the door and little Jessica went to answer it.  She was thirteen.  She said, "He asked me if dinner was ready, which was really weird, because it totally was.  And I said yes, can I help you?  And he said really slowly in this deep voice if he could have dinner with us."  This is the part where Jessica throws a high pitched giggle at the interviewer.  "Well, of _course_ I said yes.  He seemed nice.  And I asked my parents.  And they said fine.  Well, I told them I knew him from school."  Giggle.  "Omigod, omigod he was _so_ hot."  When asked to describe his appearance she shrugged and said, "I dunno.  T-shirt.  Shorts.  Real floppy shoes.  Uh…big, floppy hat."  And as the interviewer lost hope for a more exact description, Jessica gasped and said, "And OMIGOD he has _the bluest_ eyes _ever_!"  
            He visited nearly thirty houses, each time asking for a meal, or a night's rest, or maybe even a shower (once he even asked if the family had any old clothes they could spare).  No one turned him away.  No one remembered anything about his appearance except for his sapphire blue eyes glowing at them from under the brim of his hat.  
            He left early in the morning when he stayed for a night.  A yellow note was always taped on the front door.  
            "Out for a Run—be back later." 

But of course, he never came back.  
  
By the time he reached New York, he was welcomed into any house without suspicion.  
  
  


            I met Spot on my way back from school on a bright, sunny Friday when he fell out of a tree.  Literally.  
            The street I live on in my neighborhood is lined with huge white houses and miniature cars that cost over one hundred thousand dollars.  I'm a spoiled, rich kid, I know.  At least I'll admit it.  
            When I was turning the corner behind the backyard of the Thompson's, I heard rustling above me in one of the giant trees planted in exact increments along the white fence surrounding the massive yard.  I thought nothing of it, though.  But then a pinecone fell on my head, and that doesn't happen everyday, so I looked up, just in time to see a bundle of ragged clothes falling from the sky.  
            The next thing I knew I was on the hard concrete with my orange book bag nestled uncomfortably beneath me and a heavy load slumped over my stomach.  When the load disappeared and I heard a deep voice say, "Oh, sorry, man," I blinked and realized that the ominous figure looming above me was indeed a person.  
            He hoisted me up on my feet, book bag and all, and a few seconds passed where I lost the misty feeling in the back of my mind and we stood uncomfortably in each other's gaze.  
            Finally, he held out his hand and said, "I'm Spot."  
            I shook his hand.  
            T-shirt.  Shorts.  I looked down at his feet.  Floppy shoes.  On top of his head was an overly large bucket hat that covered sandy hair.  And then I saw _'the bluest_ eyes _ever_.'  
            I almost fainted then and there.  Luckily, I didn't.  
            "You're the Marathon Man."  My mouth was hanging open; I quickly shut it with a clack of my teeth.  
            He shrugged.  "I guess."  
            "Uh…" I said smartly.  
            His eyes bore into mine and suddenly the misty feeling in the back of my mind was back.  I was meeting him.  The Marathon Man.  I WAS MEETING HIM.  I tried thinking of something clever to say, but all I could think of was "Run!  Run!  Run!"  He broke the silence.  
            "Can I eat dinner at your house?"  
            If it were anyone else, I would have thrown a fit, but it was the Marathon Man, so of course I said 'yes.'  
  
  
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End Chapter One  
  
  
  
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Read and Review Please!!!!  
  
  
  
A/N:  Thank you studentnumber24601!  I have ITALICS!!!!!!  ::glomps::

I promise to make the next chapter longer!  
  
  
THANK YOU FOR REVIEWING:  
  
studentnumber24601:  YOU ROCK.  Don't you just LURVE Spot?  I do.  Hehe.  And yeah, this fic was actually partially inspired by that book Maniac McGee (which, yes, I read in sixth grade, but I still love it, woot!) and a song by a band called Spoon ("The Way We Get By").  AHHH!!  Thank you so much for reviewing!  You have no idea how happy I am!  I love all your fics, like Ribbon, and Birthday, and Where Were You When the Lights Went Out?, and ALL OF IT.  Hehe.  Thanx again.  
  
Buttons14:  Yay!  Yay!  Yay!  Haha.  Actually, thanks to you I just started reading the Gossip Girl series (actually just the first one, but whatever), and it's surprisingly good.  And I know what girl you're talking about, Blair.  Or something.  I read your Medieval Times fic and it's so amusing!  Hehe.  Spot and Race in tunics!  Spot in a tunic!  Race in a tunic!  Spot and Race in one tunic!  …eeep.  Oh my.


	3. Chapter Two

Disclaimer: No, I don't own Newsies…Yet. Mwah ha ha ha ha.  
  
[A/N]: I didn't keep my promise from the last chapter. Chapter 2 is most definitely NOT longer. Sorry. ::hangs head in shame::  
  
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See Spot Run  
  
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Chapter Two   
  
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Madison Square  
  
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_"I had 15 people tellin' me to move  
I got movin' on my mind."  
—Hotel Yorba, The White Stripes_  
  
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In my movie, my mother, a plump woman with rosy cheeks and curly black hair, will come running down the spiral staircase and embrace me with an embarrassing "My Little _Angel_, welcome home!" Then she will see Spot behind in his ragged clothing and frown, the lines in her face deepening. "Who is this, Itey?" Movie-Mama will say.  
Spot will step forward and introduce himself as 'Simon Conlon,' all smiles and sparkle. Mama will wrinkle her nose in distaste.  
Conflict. A big element in keeping the audience on the edge of their seats.  
In reality, Mama had no trouble accepting Spot for dinner. I opened the door and introduced him as Simon and he shook her hand and said, "Call me Spot." Then he winked. She blushed. She giggled. She was smitten, and married.  
I waited for her to squeal, "Little Angel, how was school?" but she didn't. Instead, she turned towards Spot and addressed me:  
"Itey, come. Bring your friend inside, quickly!" Oh, she was positively glowing.  
As soon as we stepped across the threshold she clapped her hands excitedly and merrily said, "Now, Spot, you _must_ tell me what you want for dinner. I'll make anything."  
I guess Spot had that affect on people. I'm not sure why everyone rushed to do his bidding. Maybe it was his charm and pretty face. It might have been his commanding presence. He was so skinny, though, with knobby knees but lean, long legs. Maybe it was his reputation. I think it was his eyes. So blue and sad.   
I'll have to find an actor with the same eyes; I think I'll be looking for a very long time.  
  
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He stayed for a dinner of Caesar Salad and turkey burgers (he said he _refused_ to eat red meat) and homemade potato chips. I couldn't believe how much he was eating, taking second helpings of everything. Where did the food _go_?  
It was just me, Mama, and Spot around the long, formal table. The rest of the house echoed with silence. I wouldn't say to her face but I think Mama was lonely. Dad had gone away for a business trip. He was gone nearly three-fourths of the year. I didn't know much about what he did, and I didn't care, either.  
Mama entertained us by asking stupid questions like, "Spot, such a strange name; how did it come about?" (to which Spot just snickered and then stayed silent) or "Angel, how did you meet Spot?" I told her that he fell out of a tree and landed on me but she just laughed. "You are wonderful at lying, Little Angel," she had chirped. I didn't think lying was such a wonderful trait, and when I told her she shushed me and smiled sweetly at Spot. It was awful.  
After dinner Spot and I were standing in the forum, an open space with white marble flooring and gold accents at the front of the house. His eyes brushed across the crystal chandelier suspended from the high ceiling, lingered on the colorful Money painting on the white wall, swept across the railing of the spiral staircase behind us. He was looking everywhere but at me. I knew he was thinking of a way to leave without seeming impolite.  
I wanted him to stay.  
"Well, thanks for dinner. It was great." He shuffled his feet, itching for a run. "I guess I better get going." His fingers tugged on the brim of his floppy hat, bringing it lower over his eyes. Before he finished his other hand had already grasped the doorknob. He twisted it as I said, "Wait."  
I was surprised at my own boldness. Who was I to tell the Marathon Man where and when he couldn't' run?  
He waited.  
"Where?" I asked.  
"Huh?" He turned to face me, his eyes half hidden under his hat.  
"Going," I said. Thus, my life as an inarticulate freak. "Where are you going?" I added quickly.  
He shrugged. Shoulders, up and down.  
"You mean you're just going to run around all night, sleeping in the streets?" I imagined him curled up in a ball on a bench in the park, shivering in the fierce, biting wind. Never mind that it was nearing summer.  
"No, I'll probably just sleep in the park."  
Ah, my fears confirmed. I couldn't let that happen.  
I sucked in a breath and gathered up my wits. "Do you want to…stay here tonight?" When he didn't answer I kept talking. "I mean, we've got a guest bedroom upstairs, and my Mama makes a great breakfast, and it's not like you've got anywhere to go, you know?"   
He stared at me unblinkingly with big blue eyes and I squirmed where I stood. He blinked a few times, slowly, then glanced around the foyer. I think at the time he was considering his options—or escape routes. I am sure no one had offered their house for the night before out of free will; he had always asked.  
"Sure." A slow smile graced his lips and I let out my breath. I smiled back.  
Turning, I led him towards the sweeping staircase and started climbing the carpeted stairs. I heard him stop behind me and looked over my shoulder.  
He was twirling his hat around his finger. I saw his sandy hair brush over his eyes. He hung his hat on the end of the handrail and looked up at me. I saw his blue eyes, no longer hidden, open. He said, "Let's go."  
I turned back around and clomped up the stairs, hearing the steady rhythm of his shoes hitting the floor.  
_ Thump. Thump. Thump._  
It would be a wild weekend, I could feel it.  
  
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End Chapter Two  
  
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A/N: ERGH! I am suffering from the major-estest writing block EVER with this fic. It's so annoying.  
  
THANK YOU FOR REVIEWING:  
  
studentnumber24601: YAY. Thanx for the Italics thing. I feel dumb. Hehe. As always, thanks for the review. I hope you liked it.  
  
Buttons14: Yup. Itey's here. And he's staying! Hehehe. ::gasp!:: My Little Pony! Haha. I remember that show. I used to be, like, my favorite-est.  
  
Parkranger: WOW. You've heard of Imperial Teen. That is v. impressive. No one in my school has heard of them! Well, I think, anyways. Well, actually, I don't know much about them, but their songs ROCK. Hehe. I hope you liked it!  
  
You've already read, now review please!!!!


	4. Chapter Three

Disclaimer:  No, I don't own Newsies…Yet.  Mwah ha ha ha ha.  
  
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See Spot Run  
  
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Chapter Three  
  
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Madison Square  
  
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_"It's out of your hands  
It's not what you planned  
But it keeps knockin' you over."  
—Sloan_  
  
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            I woke up Saturday morning and Spot was gone.  I knew from the moment I opened my eyes that the house was empty aside from myself and the smell of fresh waffles.  When I walked down the grand spiral staircase, wiping the sleep from my eyes, clad in an old white tee-shirt and plaid pajama pants (Mama _never_ let me walk around in just boxers), I found Spot's hat still hooked over the rail of the staircase.  
            Maybe he would come back for it.    
            I doubted myself.  Why should he?  He's never stayed in one place for over a day.  What did I really expect?  That he stay with me for a week?  
            There were two notes taped to the front door that caught my attention.  A yellow piece of paper and a purple one.  I already knew what the yellow one would say: "Out for a run.  Be back later.—Spot."  I didn't bother reading that one; I tore it off the door and stuffed the note down the pocket of my pants.  The other note was from my mother.  
            "Angel, getting groceries.  Breakfast on table.  Ask Spot if he wants some.—Mama."  So she didn't know that he was gone.  
            I turned back to the staircase and contemplated going back to sleep.  Maybe this weekend wouldn't be so wild, after all.  I walked up the stairs.  
            _Thump.  Thump.  Thump._    
            This time, I didn't hear any footsteps behind me.  
  
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            In my movie I will wake up and run down the stairs and catch Spot just as he is walking out the door.  
            "We not good enough for you?" Actor-me will say lightheartedly.  
            Spot will smile sadly and say, "You know it."  He'll look at fake-Itey in the eyes and we'll both know he has to leave.  It is what makes him the Marathon Man; he has to keep moving or he'll lose the race.  
            He'll nod and I'll smile, and then he'll be gone.  
            The movie screen will fill with the image of his dog-eared sneakers flapping away.  
  
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            "Angel!  You better not still be sleeping!" I heard Mama screech from the forum.  Of course I wasn't still sleeping.  I was just awoken half a second ago by a very high pitched call.  
            "I'm back from the market!"  
            I heard her footsteps echo from the kitchen.  
            "You haven't eaten breakfast!  Where's Speck?"  
            I rolled over in my bed.  Saturday morning is a time for _sleep_.  It was not use, though.  After five minutes of tossing and turning I realized that I would not be falling asleep again and that I was tangled in my Batman sheets.  
            "_Spot_ left!" I yelled, my voice hoarse.  I heard rapid footsteps and a _clack, clack, clack,_ and I knew Mama was running up the stairs in her small pumps.  
            "Did you thank him for coming?"  Her voice sounded closer, now.  
            "Yes," I lied.  _You are wonderful at lying, Angel_, Mama had said.  "He didn't want breakfast."  
            "No wonder he's just skin and bones!"  She flew through my door and I gave a small yelp.  
            "_MA_!  What if I wasn't dressed?"  I scrambled out of my bed and unwrinkled the Batmen.  
            "Nothing I have not seen before, Little Angel."  
            I grunted.  
            "I want you to go back down to the market and pick up some things for me," she continued, oblivious of my disheveled state.  
            "You were just down there!"  
            "I _walked_.  I had to carry all those _bags_."  She paced around my room, then pulled open the curtains of my window with flourish.  "You just have to pick up my dry-cleaning."  Sunlight streamed into my room.  
            She clapped her hands twice.  "Chop, chop!"  
            There really was no point in arguing.  
  
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            Breakfast was a giant stack of lukewarm waffles, hot syrup, and cold, pulpy orange juice.  
            Mama had to snap at me and whip a wet towel at my retreating back before I would move back up the stairs.  
  
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            I saw him everywhere.  The moment I stepped out of my front door I thought I saw Spot disappearing around the block.  But then I remembered that his hat was hanging inside my house, and the person had been wearing a hat similar to Spot's own.  
            I walked down my street slowly, running my hand along the white fences.  Above me, the leaves shook and I expected Spot to fall on me again.  But nothing happened.  
            When I heard footsteps behind me, I turned to find no one there.  By the time I reached Betsy's Dry-Cleaning, which was sandwiched between the Farmer's Market and the local bookshop, I was convinced I was hallucinating.  
            The sidewalk was crowded enough for me to beware of pickpockets, but all the faces I saw were familiar.  None of them were Spot's.  
            He wasn't coming back.  
  
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            I was lying on my bed, wide awake at one o'clock in the morning, and I heard a knock against the glass.  At first, I thought it must have been a tree branch; it was getting windy at nights.  Then the knock came again.  
            Curious, I looked at my window, and nearly had a heart attack.  
            Spot's grinning face was peering at me behind a wall of glass.  
            I shot out of bed and to the window, hastily opening it.  
            What if he fell?  How did he get up there in the first place?  My window was on the second floor and had nothing underneath it (I would know, because once when I was five I tried running away.  I got as far as opening my window.  But then I looked down.  I stayed in bed the rest of the night).  
            When he clambered in, I heard leaves shaking and I looked behind him.  He had scaled a huge tree and crawled out onto a thin, fragile-looking branch.  
            "Can I stay here tonight?" he asked, his voice low so Mama wouldn't hear.  
            His clothes had changed.  His tee-shirt, though still worn, looked newer and was a brightly colored tie-dye.  He still had on the same shorts and shoes, but without his hat he looked different.  He looked normal.  He didn't look like The Marathon Man who could never stop running.  
            _Can I stay here tonight?_  
            I nodded.  
            He crept out of my door into the hallway and I saw him head towards the guest room.  
            I couldn't stop smiling.  
  
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End Chapter Three   
  
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A/N:  I'm not very happy with how this chapter turned out, but oh well.    
  
Shoutouts:  
  
**studentnumber24601**:  ::blush:: Please don't marry my fic, you're honeymoon might not be so great.  Thanx for the review.  Sorry, I haven't updated for so long.  
  
**Buttons14**:  NEVER WATCHED MY LITTLE PONY!?  I'm flabbergasted.  I used to know all the Ponys' names.  It was very sad.  ANYWAY.  Thank you for the review.  And, yes, Itey is the BEST.  He's so great.  ::sigh::  
  
**DigitalAngel4U**:  Underlying themes?  Maybe.  I don't know.  If this fic has any, I'm not aware of them.  Hehe.  Hey, if it does, and you find any themes and such, wanna tell me?  Haha.  Thank you so much for the review!  
  
You've already read, now review please!!!!


	5. Chapter Four

Disclaimer: No, I don't own Newsies…Yet. Mwah ha ha ha ha.

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See Spot Run

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Chapter Four

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Madison Square

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_"Where are we runnin'?"___

_--Lenny Kravitz_

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Sunday I woke up before the sun so that I could catch Spot before he escaped again. Spot was not awake yet, just as I had hoped, and there was no note on the door to indicate that he had already left.

He woke up at 7:30 am, long before anyone in my family rose, ever, on weekends, discounting today of course.

I didn't want to appear clingy, so I made myself comfortable at the breakfast car. Realizing that sitting at a bar at seven-thirty in the morning doing nothing but staring at the opposite wall was slightly suspicious, I jumped off my stool and tip-toed to the refrigerator. I opened the freezer, reaching for the first thing that came to mind: my Ben n' Jerry's Cherry Garcia pint of ice-cream.

Lovely mass of frozen heaven swirled with chocolate and cherries. And now for the spoon.

Armed with a utensil and my pint of ice-cream, I sat at the breakfast car, ready to appear as if I were doing something.

_ Flap flap flap_. The sound of shabby sneakers on marble. Moments later Spot came into view.

Quickly I opened my tub of ice-cream and dug into the frozen fluff with the spoon. I didn't take into account the resistance of the icy mass, and the spoon bent. I ignored it and pretended to be eating anyway.

"Hi," I said pleasantly. He stopped and turned and flashed a smile.

"Where are you going?" My own voice resonated off the walls. I was the only one who heard an echo. _Going going going.___

"Out for a run," he said.

"Could I come?"

He started walking towards the door like he didn't hear me. I abandoned my spoon and ice-cream and walked towards him.

His hand reached for the doorknob and I said again, "Can I come?"

He looked at me skeptically behind his sandy hair.

"Are you serious?"

I nodded briskly. He started at me for a few more moments and I felt my cheeks growing hot. A perfect moment in my movie for Spot to say smoothly, "No one has ever come after me before." The Spot standing before me didn't say that, though.

He turned towards the door again. "Alright. Go change; I'll wait," he said.

"Cool." I walked up the stairs as calmly as I could. When I turned the corner to my room I dashed around and pulled on an old tee-shirt and big shorts. Still pulling on sneaker, I ran out of my room. Before turning the corner, I stopped to compose myself, then stepped into view.

True to his word, Spot was still there. He was shaking his head, probably silently laughing at me.

Let's go, then, "he said as he opened the door. I had to clamber down the stairs to keep up.

==

I suddenly remembered why I hated running. It was boring, tiring, sweaty. To my left Spot was taking calm breaths while I was struggling to breathe, jogging down the not-so-crowded sidewalk.

I felt purple. This was the only adjective that came to mind. My face was purple, my veins were purple, I was seeing purple dots. A few people walked by carrying Styrofoam cups filled with steaming coffee. I envied them purple.

I really hate running because:

1. I start to resemble a tomato, or, maybe, a plum,

2. I forget how to breathe,

3. The inside of my ribs starts to cramp so that,

4. I look like a complete fool running with my arms held up high, and,

5. It makes me realize how out of shape I am and makes me wish I still played basketball.

When I make my movie, the actor who plays me shouldn't look as ridiculous.

==

He kept running after we passed the dry-cleaning place and the grocery store so I kept running with him.

It wasn't like those marathons where they let people rest a little and give them orange juice and bagels.

We ran. People walked by. Spot waved at a few shady-looking characters and they waved back. Perhaps he met them during the past few days.

At eight o'clock he took a left turn down a street on which I had never been. Quickly I realized why. Mama would never let me set foot in a place like this—the houses were getting shabbier and shabbier until run down apartments took the place of run down houses.

At eight-fifteen he turned into an apartment complex, consisting of three buildings surrounding a small square courtyard. Spot ran straight towards the middle building, opened the front door, ran past the elevator and opened the door to the stairs.

My insides turned to mush. Running, I could do. Climbing up flights of stairs was a different question.

But as he climbed, I climbed.

He climbed until he reached the fourth floor. Then he ran down the hall and stopped in front of 412. The paint on the door was peeling and yellowing. What was I doing here?

Spot put his hands on his head and walked around a bit, breathing in and out. I collapsed against the thin wall and tried to calm my breathing.

"Why," I gasped, "do you do this?" I didn't expect him to answer, but he did.

"Do what?" He wasn't pink at all.

"Run huge distances without stopping."

He shrugged. "Running gives me time to think."

"So does sitting on your bed." Breathe, Itey, breathe.

"Running is soothing. It feels good, especially when you stop."

I nodded my head, not because I agreed, but because my mouth wasn't working.

It was eight-thirty and Spot opened the door to 412 and stepped inside. He motioned my in then told me to be quiet.

The apartment was tiny. The kitchen looked barely used; the countertops were still white, the linoleum floor un-scuffed. Empty pizza boxes strewn over the living room floor explained the kitchen's state.

Spot opened the door to the right, revealing a dimly-lit room—the blinds on the window were shut—and a lump on the bed in the corner.

In the next few seconds I saw the strangest scene in my life. Spot crept towards the bed silently, then jumped up and yelled and tackled the lump.

In the next moment two screams shook the walls; I think they were mine and the lump's.

Then Spot sat cross-legged on the bed and laughed.

Lump said, "Fuck, Spot. It's like six in the morning! What the Hell are you doing here?"

"It's eight-forty, Race You shouldn't leave your door unlocked. Any freak could come in."

The lump—hereby referred to as 'Racetrack' or 'Race'—groaned and squirmed under the covers. Spot was smiling. Sadistic punk.

"Aren't you going to fix your guests breakfast?" He lay down on the bed facing opposite sides of Race, looking towards the ceiling.

I looked at the ceiling. Nothing interesting. Paint peeling in some places.

"Guests?" Race said. He flipped off the covers. He was only in his boxers. "What guests?"

Spot lazily gestured a hand towards me. "That's Itey."

"Oh." Racetrack didn't look impressed. I waved a feeble hello. Spot said, "Itey, this is Racetrack," and then he wrapped a hand around Racetrack's ankle and Racetrack didn't mind. Jealousy, my mind said.

Jealousy is not a little green monster; it's a humongous demon wielding a machine gun and all the demon lets you see is red crimson red.

In my movie I will glare at the figure on the bed with disguised contempt but I'm sure in reality I was seething. I'll make sure not to make Racetrack as good-looking on film.

I knew from that moment that I would hate Racetrack. Everyone says that 'hate' is such a strong word, but really, that's what I was feeling.

"There's some leftover pizza lying around and you can heat it up in the microwave. Now, go away. Come back in a few hours."

"Thanks, Race." Spot rolled off the red, rolling over Race in the process (I think I heard a muffled, drawn out, "Fuuck," but I can't be too sure.) "C'mon, Itey. Let's get breakfast."

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End Chapter Four

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A/N: Sorry it took so freakin' long to come out with this chapter. Went to California for a month and got sidetracked.

Shoutouts:

**Buttons14:** Itey's mom, a jolly, bossier Santa Claus. Interesting.

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**i-nv-u50**: Thank you! I love my Spotty v. much and it's nice to know that other people like him, too.

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**DigitalAngel4U**: I should make my future English teacher read my fic and tell me what underlying themes he/she sees. Probably none. Oh, well. Thanx for the review!

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**Strawberri Shake:** Race is here! (sort of) There will be more of him and more of Spot ( and more of Itey ) in the coming chapters. Yippee!

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**studentnumber24601:** blush That's all I can do. Thanx for the review! (Hey! That rhymes!)

You've already read, now review please!!!!


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